Eternal
by MMBC
Summary: A story about a god slowly losing his mind as the years drag on, and a man who became a god who wished again for mortality. Tens, a hundred, a thousand millennia that bled into an eternity spent seeking for something, and the rest of eternity spent happily drowning in it. Gerita AU


Author's note: Hi everyone. This is a story based very loosely on the concept of Greek myths with some insertion of international cultures here and there. It will be updated on a pretty infrequent basis, except perhaps for the holiday seasons, and in relatively short chapters, like this one. There will be a few other stories in the same universe written and updated simultaneously with this story for other pairings. At some points. Replies to reviews will be done in the next chapter in a mostly general manner. I do not have a beta-reader and I apologise for any mistake despite proof-reading efforts. On the other hand, the flow might get a bit confusing at times. That is intentional, since Italy is supposed to be losing it. With the administrative matters dealt with, here's the first chapter. Enjoy.

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**Chapter one**

It was a lovely night. The wine was flowing and the songs echoed down the hall in ripples that sent pleasant laughter bubbling from his throat. He laughed in exuberance, letting his eyes travel appreciatively down the spinning figure in the middle of their lot, taking in curves and supple skin and a sensuality that sent blood roaring in his ears. A smile, neither provocative nor demure, mysterious like the night sky on which they stood, and Feliciano was taken in like a trapped deer. He followed movement like water with his eyes and laughed some more, before sweeping his hand and chalices of sweet, sweet wine appeared out of thin air. Flowing wine and songs, and plenty of pretty goddesses, he'd happily drown himself in this night, as he had the last night, and the next, and the next.

At some point amidst the revelry he loved so much, because Feliciano Vargas was the god of songs, after all, his eyes somehow strayed to a lone corner of the hall to catch a figure. Leaning against a column with practised ease, arms crossed over a strong chest, he was the man who was made a god after all that he had done and more. A man who blended into the background at a party thrown by the almighty Roma Vargas. Feliciano knew the man did not belong here; he never was a god in his own right. For a split second, eyes bluer than anything he had ever seen directed themselves straight at and through him, and Feliciano was reminded of something far away so long ago that he could not quite remember. Maybe he had seen those eyes somewhere, some time before.

A hand touched his cheek, warm and smooth as silk. Feliciano forgot what he had been thinking about to snake an arm about a slim waist, pulling the sensuous body flush against himself with a familiarity gained through a million previous encounters. It was a silly wonder; perhaps a rare moment of clarity in this numbing drunkenness. Pale hair, pale skin, pale eyes. Feliciano turned away, immediately thinking about how best to praise the beauty in his arms. Paleness did not stand out here; it faded away to the back of one's mind. Already, in his mind, such paleness was behind a thick veil of fog, to be washed away to world's end where tens of thousands of years of memories piled over, until it blended into the rest of the blank of his drunken consciousness.

Here in the Heavenly Palace, a hundred years passed in drinks and songs as a day on earth. Or perhaps it was the other way round; he had long stopped being able to tell from the repetitive appearance and disappearance of the sun and moon, years after years after years. The gods and goddesses slept together one time, and they were up and dancing and lounging about, laughing at the misfortunes befalling humans the next. Such pointless existences, Feliciano once thought. He was not so sure what he was thinking nowadays, his head in a perpetual cloud that would not let him see clearly. Maybe one day, they would all disappear from this mindless revelry, and from this world for good. Would that have been better, he sometimes found himself wondering with another cup of wine half-way to his lips.

Sometimes, when the sky was bright and the gods and goddesses were sleeping still, Feliciano took solace in the sight of his weeping brother. His brother, who fell in love with a mortal man, who in turn was oblivious to the desires of an immortal until said immortal casted him into a timeless sleep. It was not so much punishment as it was a childish effort to cling desperately to his precious thing. It was like his brother, all denial and roughness translated into a love running so deep it cut him like a clean knife through the heart.

Parting the clouds with a trembling hand, he sat for hours that bled into days listening to the sounds of Lovino's quiet suffering, feeling like he was alive for the first time all over again in a very long while. Most of the times, though, he would come to take his brother's hand from the vine-covered body. Feliciano loved playing music. Lovino loved listening to him play. So his fingers danced over the cords of the mandolin, and songs upon songs of tender, passionate, pure, raging love poured from his lips. His brother would listen to his songs, head pillowed on a still thigh resting on a stone slab that served as a bed, until his eyes drooped and he fell sideway into slumber as the last words of the lullaby died on Feliciano's lips. He would then brush a stray tear from tired eyes, light as the brush of a rose petal, feeling his brother's wet eyelashes sticking to his finger and wondering if that really was proof of love. His brother's love, tender, passionate, pure and raging. Feliciano sometimes wondered if he really understood what love was despite his flowery words and the empty echoes of the words in the throes of passion. His songs moved people. He was the muse, the lover of poets, the life of bards, the heart of heroes, the inspiration of lovers, the maker of kings… He wondered if he even understood what he sang about so often.

Other times, Feliciano forgot. His heart was light, bearing nothing inside, and he danced to the harp into the dead of night until men dropped and immortals became drunk on his songs. In the long nights that he carried on his fun and courting, sometimes he would see the lone man standing in the corner watching them all, eyes unreadable and face a marble statue like an ancient, ancient god. Sometimes, in his light-headedness, Feliciano would come over and hug the man, pressing a cup of wine to his stern lips and pulling him into the crowd for a dance. Nameless encounters they were, and nameless they remained, because such paleness would sink to the bottom of his memories where flowers and rainbows took front stage. He had done the same to every single god and goddesses.

Tonight, there was a celebration of some kind, and Feliciano sang until his throat was raw. He laughed a drunken laugh, before hauling himself up and outside for a breath of air. The sky was beautiful anyway, velvety black against his fingers; maybe this unchanging blackness would finally inspire a new poem in this unchanging world? Feliciano scanned the pitch black sky for something he knew not which; it was new moon, and Honda Kiku was asleep in his bed of cloud far away from the Palace. Yet there was a spot of light a distance away. Feliciano could see it clearly against the dark, because there was nothing that defied darkness like this source of light. It was a soft, gentle light, pale and lonely, but it drew him in like no beautiful goddess could. He walked in his alcohol-induced haze without realising, until he was face to face with a paleness so bright it lit up the sky like a faraway star. Pale hair, pale skin, pale eyes. The man who became a god.

'What are you doing here away from all the fun?' He smiled. Feliciano Vargas was a happy god, all smiles and songs and drinks. He swayed on his spot, hands knitting behind his back, not expecting an answer, yet talking all the same. 'You don't like the fun, I noticed. Come, what's so bad about it? You should drink more.'

'What are you doing here, then? Go back. You can drink inside.'

The man's eyes were cold, but they were the bluest things he had ever seen, and Feliciano again remembered. Or he tried to, before the old memory flowed from his grasp like sand through the gaps between fingers. He did not mind, though, because despite the harshness in his voice, the man finally stood out, gentler than his grandfather Roma, and so sharp it sliced a gash straight through his usual happiness.

'You suit the scenery.' Feliciano ignored the man's statement, 'You are beautiful here. Why do you come to the parties if you don't like them? I know the almighty Roma Vargas could be overbearing at times, but you don't need to come if you truly don't want to. Is it boring for you? Ah, I thought of a poem that might suit you. Listen:

Against the blue sky this fine day

Flies an eagle with a thousand stars on his wings.

Like the stars he flies

His back straight as he, the beacon of hope.

Would that I were warm loving wind,

To caress his wings and soothe his feathers

And know love from the proud of heart.'

There was a long silence in which Feliciano tried to place music to the words, a repetitive and sad, sad melody. The man merely stared at him, an unreadable look in his eyes, but Feliciano ignored him. His song. It made an imperfect song. Feliciano did not like it.

'A poem by you yourself?'

'Ve, yes!' He fell out of his reverie, over a cliff and onto something soft. 'Do you like it?'

The man took a moment more to think, eyes on the far heavens and a hand at his chin. Feliciano was struck by the gesture; it was as though the man was much older than he looked, weary and silent. Maybe it would have perked his interest had he been sober. Maybe it should have, because as Feliciano drank in the sight, forgetting where and who he was, his haze buzzed as no wine could have made him. The man still glowed, his back against the dark sky and his pale hair a beacon of light, and Feliciano found himself struggling to catch his breath. He suddenly felt faint. From what, he knew not, but he knew it was a welcomed change in the staleness of his unchanging routine. It probably made him happier than usual. And at long last:

'I don't dislike it. And yet it seems random and corresponds neither to rules nor rhyme.'

'Ve… What are rules? Gods make the rules, silly man.' Feliciano laughed another drunken laugh, swaying on the spot as though he was about to keel over. 'A man who became a hero. A hero who became a god. What was it like when you were still a mortal? Do you miss your old home? It's so white up here, I forgot. And what's not to like about the fun in the parties; you live without a care in the world for an eternity to look forward to. Sometimes I do go down there, see, the colours are dull but somehow they seem prettier. And the women wilder, too. I like that. Have you seen these women dance? They tap their feet and stomp like they're angry, and their hands twist like fire, but they seem so sad. Fierce, yet sad. Makes for beautiful music, I think. Yet these women last for but a heartbeat. The music lasts forever. Such a shame, I think, but when they grow old, they become sweeter, like wine. Goddesses don't grow old, but they last forever. Eh, I think I like that dance where they stomp angrily better; it's almost sweet in its fleeting passionate moment.'

There was an almost confused expression on the man's face, like he did not know how to react to Feliciano's way of carrying on the conversation. Mortal man and his simple thinking. For how long had he been with them? He could not remember. Perhaps another hundred thousand years, and he would become more complicated like the gods and goddesses here, before he would forget everything in favour of Francis' wine and Feliciano's songs, like the gods and goddesses here.

'My old home down there was beautiful. The sky's not as clear as here every day. It's usually covered in grey clouds and overcast. But there are the golden wheat fields stretching towards the horizon, and dark, powerful forests standing tall guarding the land. People are very hard-working, too; they work from dawn to dusk, before coming home and huddle on the hearth in front of a roaring fire, eating stew and sausages.'

The man fell silent. Feliciano realised he did not even know the name of this man who became a god, but he did realise the glint in those pale, pale eyes. This man missed the earth. It was a foolish sentiment as he had never seen before. Had not the long years of drinking here taught him anything?

But Feliciano was light-hearted. He forgot. To care was too difficult; it weighed him down and tied him with iron chains. Those were the songs on his loneliest nights as he gazed on at the lovers torn apart and countries being lost, at people dying and precious things being thrown away. His songs must be free; otherwise, they would better have been dead. It was so much easier to be kind in a fleeting moment and remain cheerful in countless of fleeting moments like that. Losing one's self in timelessness was always easier.

'What's your name? I don't think I've asked you this before. But then I don't think you've ever spoken this much either. You don't like the parties. Ah, I know, let's visit the moon some day; my friend is there, and he's quiet like you. We can have a small private party just between the three of us. I can even play the mandolin and sing for you! The moon would suit you, I think. Or perhaps the sun. It's going to reflect off your hair like a mirror or something. Hm. I don't know; perhaps we could try seeing both.'

The look he received was strange. The blue eyes gazing into his were intense, as if the man wanted to gaze into his very soul. Feliciano wanted to run a hand over those prominent eyebrows always drawn together into a frown and smooth them out. Had the man not always worn such a frown, would he have been easier to read?

'Ludwig.' It was a simple name, one that rolled off the tip of his tongue like honey and light and the thousand songs he did not care to repeat. And still, Feliciano swayed where he stood, a smile on his face and a warm, bubbly feeling in his chest. He latched onto the man's, now Ludwig's, arm and dragged him inside for another bout of drinks. After all, he had sobered up and was ready to find another beauty who would be willing to bed him for the night.

For the rest of the night, Feliciano tried to ignore the warmth radiating from the man at his side that heaped onto this night's pleasures, or how his happiness hitched just that tiny bit, confusing him as to his own state of mind. He pressed a cup of wine to Ludwig's lips again, smiling like the drunken little fool he was, before sweeping more wine into his own cup. Before long, he was sufficiently intoxicated to let the confusion subside, lost again in an ocean of other pleasures too numerous to name.

The next time Feliciano woke up, he was on a bed he did not know, the bright blue sky streaming into his eyes. For a short instance, there was a feeling that he had forgotten something important. It was vague like a trickle of rain on stone, which disappeared into the leaking creeks of his thought. As the goddess beside him stirred, eyes like spring water languidly fluttering open, Feliciano discarded the thought in favour of a morning kiss, his favourite kiss of the day.

Perhaps it was an unimportant thought, after all. Nothing was important enough to worry him anymore nowadays.


End file.
